


No One Ever Said It Would Be So Hard

by madmadeleine



Series: the return [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Series 3 Preview, Sherlock can't always have what he wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:25:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmadeleine/pseuds/madmadeleine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been planning this moment for three years, and Mary Morstan definitely did not feature into his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Ever Said It Would Be So Hard

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a retelling of the events of Come Back and Haunt Me that's focused on Sherlock rather than John. It's not necessary to have read CBaHM, but if you wish to, it's Part One of this series.

He’s been planning this moment for three years.

Ever since he jumped off St. Bart’s, John Watson has been the only lasting, relevant thought in his mind. Moriarty’s network could only occupy so much (they were only ordinary, after all), and so for three years he was tortured by the image of John standing by his grave, the ghost of John’s hand on his wrist, grappling for a pulse that did not beat there.

This has to be perfect. His homeless network has informed him of John’s location (strange, he would have thought this restaurant a bit rich for John’s blood), and now all he has to do is walk up to him. Sherlock stands at the door, determination plastered on his face.

 

And then he sees it.

_John sits across the table from a woman. They are quite comfortable with each other, have become close oh. Lovers then. Long-term, judging by that hideous specimen on his lip, and the box in his left pocket_

_The box in his left pocket_

_The box in his left pocket_

His deductive processes are screeching to a halt, his mind stuck on the rectangular box in John’s left pocket.

_People move on. It has been three years, after all. Three years. Three years and twenty one days._

He will never get this man out of his head.

 

John finally sees him, his face turning ashen grey.The woman by his side (that must be Mary Morstan. Mycroft had mentioned something, and he had once again ignored his brother) says something, but John clearly does not hear. Sherlock smiles. _This is it, then. What I’ve spent three years waiting to hear._ John runs towards him, and Sherlock can feel his heart beating faster, can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

John finally reaches him, is standing right in front of him, and Sherlock is so overwhelmed by sentiment that all he can say is “Hello, John.”

It is not enough, it is not enough for three years of absence. Even he can see that, see it written all over John’s face, and before he can follow up with the sentiments John will clearly expect, John replies.

 

“No.”

It feels like a slap in the face. “No?” Sherlock questions, and it takes a moment for him to realise that he’s said it out loud.

John’s face has turned from ash to stone to steel. “You don’t just walk out and come back three years later with no more than a ‘hello’. That’s not how it works, Sherlock. I’m going to go find Mary.”

Everything Sherlock meant to say burbles to his lips, choking him. “John-”

It’s too late. John has turned around and is leaving him.

 

The emotions coursing through him, sadness and dejection and loss and anger and pain, leave him speechless and gasping for air. He can’t go after John; he can barely take a step.

_He dropped the ring. He will need that._

_He needs things from Mary that I will never be equipped to give. But I can give him this._

He crosses to the table John and Mary had occupied, paying no attention to the stares of the other patrons. Scooping up the ring-box, he leaves the restaurant.

 

John and Mary stand outside, arguing over something or other. Sherlock steps outside, and John freezes.

He has to speak quickly; he has to get this out before John leaves again. “John, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I had no idea my return would do this to you, I apologize, I would never have done it if-”

The punch takes him by surprise, though he should have expected it. He starts to stand, but the next two hits have him on his knees. Mary’s voice rings clear as a bell into the night, and John’s momentary hesitation is all he needs. Sherlock springs up and grabs John by the shoulders, dodging the half-hearted fourth punch.

“I deserve every punch you throw at me, John,” he says, quietly. John finally stops struggling, and Sherlock relaxes his grip slightly.

“We could talk at great length about my reasons for what I did, but it is cold and wet, and Miss Morstan has no umbrella.” He takes a deep breath and plunges into his next sentence. “What I did was to protect you. I intended to give you some sort of sign, but it proved to be too dangerous- any sign you could comprehend would, of course, also be immediately  comprehended by the criminal world, and it was crucial that they be kept in the dark.”

_I returned to drugs without your influence on my life._

_I missed you like a limb._

_I love you._

These are all the things he wants to say, but he will never say them.

“I owe you a lifetime of apologies. I never thought you would be so affected.” His arms wrap around John in a gesture that they have never shared, but one that truly feels like a homecoming.

John, unexpectedly, begins to weep into his shoulder. “Sherlock,” he whispers into the coat, and Sherlock thinks that he has been forgiven. He slips the velvet box back into John’s pocket as the two sink to the steps.

Mary Morstan joins them, rubbing her hand in slow circles on John’s back. Sherlock tenses momentarily as jealousy takes over, but then relaxes into John’s limp figure.

 _He loves her, so she must be special_ , he thinks as John rises. He looks at Mary, whose face is etched with both sympathy and tension. She is nervous too, then.

 

But to Mary’s eternal credit, she is the one to start the exchange of pleasantries. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, smiling with a trace of irony. “I’m Mary Morstan, but it sounds like you already know that. I assume you’re Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock smiles pleasantly, or as pleasantly as he can manage, and shakes her hand.

He whispers, “Thank you for John” into her ear. She smiles, as if to say ‘it was no trouble.’ John has told her about him, then, which will make the following weeks easier for all three of them.

 

“Shall we head home?” John says, and he and Mary say “Yes” simultaneously. _Oh_.

“I was talking to Mary,” John says.

The words insert the knife, but the ice-cold tone twists it deeper.

Mary puts her arm through John’s, looking back at Sherlock with something that is not quite sympathy and not quite gloating, and the two begin the walk home, leaving Sherlock behind for the second time that night.

  
  



End file.
